


Spring Fever

by shipwreckblue



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A Leitner Made Them Do It, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Except no one's actually doing it, M/M, Partial Mind Control by Supernatural Object, Rating May Change, Set post S1- mid S2, Tags May Change, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 15:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17511308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwreckblue/pseuds/shipwreckblue
Summary: Martin nudges Sasha’s vacant desk chair over and sits down heavily. There’s a tense pause before he can force out, in a voice half his usual volume, “Jon’s just professed his undying love for me, you see, and I can’t imagine-”“Excuse me, are you joking?” Tim’s eyebrows very nearly disappear into his hairline; if Martin weren’t so strung out, it would be comical.“That’s what I asked when he tried to kiss me, actually, and he said no, so you'll  understand if I'm in a bit of a shock!” Martin snaps.(Spring fever; an experience of restlessness or romantic feelings, associated with the onset of spring.)





	Spring Fever

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first TMA fic, so I have to give a big thanks to both the fandom at large and the RQ crew; I haven't felt this inspired by a work of media in over a year and a half. Thanks also to my bestest pal, who got me into the Magnus Archives, listens to me talk shop about writing on a near-constant basis, and inspires me all the time. <>

Martin tracks dirt all the way into the archives when he returns, even though he did his best to stomp it off before he got on the tube, and again at the entrance to the building. On one hand, he is fully prepared to catch whatever hell is certainly coming for him. In fairness, though, the mudprints should not be classified as fully his own fault. He observed no significant abnormalities about the patch of public flowerbed in Holland Park, the one which a Mr. Cassidy had claimed to have swallowed his fiancé and their little dog too. However, Martin _had_ noticed that the dirt in the area was particularly sticky, much more so than regular mud. Even his most vigorous stomps and scrapes against the concrete had done little to remove the damp and clumpy residue. After a minute, he noticed that people were starting to stare, and so resigned to simply give his shoes a good wipedown and receive his inevitable reprimand from janitorial on the chin. Nevertheless, once he enters the archives proper, Martin slinks cautiously toward the assistants’ office on the bare thread of hope that he might be able to get cleaned up before anyone can pin him for the mess.

Of course, he isn’t so fortunate and probably shouldn’t have hoped in the first place that a man of his stature would be able to pull off an inconspicuous slink under any circumstances. And of course, it is the worst case scenario. Jonathan Sims materializes from between two rows of files, immediately notices Martin’s pathetic attempts to be sneaky, and sets down the thick manila folder he was holding. “Martin, there you are. I’ve been searching for you,” he says, brisk as always, and strides toward Martin purposefully.

“Oh, I was out at Holland Park checking that flowerbed; was there something more pressing?” Martin glances back at the incriminating trail of startlingly dark footprints he’s left behind him. “Sorry about the mess, by the way- I didn’t get _eaten_ , obviously, but I think that Cassidy fellow may have been onto something.” He may have to toss his loafers after this, on second thought. Maybe he can bill the Institute for a new pair.

“Never mind that,” Jon says dismissively, and only then does Martin realize exactly how close his boss has moved in on him. There’s barely a person-sized gap between them. Then only a few centimeters, and Martin has to look down to meet Jon’s eyes. He opens his mouth to ask a question- Either what it is he shouldn’t be minding, exactly, or what spurred this sudden disregard for personal space, but before he can get a word out, Jon is kissing him.

Jon is kissing him, has taken two handfuls of the front of Martin’s sweater and gone up on his toes to reach. A sharp spike of shock drives itself through Martin’s chest followed by a tingling sensation that spreads throughout all four of his limbs and makes him feel a bit lightheaded, hyper-aware of his own body. He is still holding a paper sack with the corner store sandwich he bought for lunch. Jon’s lips are chapped and he tastes faintly of cigarettes, although he makes up for that somewhat with an eagerness that is quickly becoming overwhelming. When Jon’s tongue swipes hotly along his lower lip, Martin drops the sack in favor of grabbing him by both shoulders and forcing them apart, panting.

“What was that for?” Jon looks put out, which is alarming Martin a lot more than any of his previous behavior. Both of his hands are still tangled loosely in Martin’s sweater, as if reluctant to let go.

Martin splutters for a full ten seconds before he manages to squeak out, “I could bloody well ask you the same question!” His voice has gone up maybe a full octave, and he hates it. “Christ, Jon, are you ill?”

Jon narrows his eyes. “It can’t have been that bad.”

“What, you mean- I’m less concerned right now with whether or not it was a good kiss and more with why the hell you decided to do it!” Jon still hasn’t let go of his sweater, and Martin’s tingling sensation has since concentrated itself at that dull point of contact. He knows he’s gone red all over, the patented Blackwood full-body flush; his heart rate is through the roof. “Really, are you delirious or something?” It’d be just like Jon, staying at work through some kind of horrific fever. “Your color’s high- but that’s, oh, sod it.” He presses the back of his hand to Jon’s forehead and finds it warm, but not distressingly so.

“I’m fine, actually.” Jon sounds, of all things, annoyed. He seems to be attempting to steer Martin back towards the door to the assistants’ office, albeit unsuccessfully; Martin must have at least twenty pounds on him. “Look,” he starts again with frustration, “if it’s privacy that’s your issue-”

“It’s one of them!” Martin laughs, feeling a bit delirious himself. “Is this supposed to be some kind of- some sick _joke_ , or- Is someone recording?”  
  
“Oh, _really,_ Martin, nobody here is that cruel.” Jon takes on a slightly pained grimace, his grip finally slacking on Martin’s sweater. “Besides, I’m not- I mean, I thought you might like it, at least, I... “

“So this is- What, an experiment, then? That’s twisted, Jon, I don’t know what you expect-” Martin tries to throw his hands up, but Jon grabs one of them, growing more and more upset with every word.

“Don’t be- I’m not taking advantage of you, Martin, it’s nothing like that!” He squeezes Martin’s hand, insistent.

“How should I know?” Martin is half-whispering now, scanning the room for any sign of Sasha or, heaven forbid, Tim. “What am I supposed to think, you hardly even came onto me before you, well- You were just _on_ me, what is going on?”

“Is it so hard to believe that I want you?” Jon catches Martin’s other hand, and the sincerity in his voice is truly dizzying as he continues. “No caveats. I promise, I was waiting for you to get back because it’s already been too long, don’t you see, is- Is that _really_  so unbelievable?”

“Er, _yeah,_ sorry! You kind of hate me, Jon!”

Jon’s whole posture droops, crestfallen, and Martin is starting to feel a little incredulous. “Oh, don’t- Can you- Can you stop doing that, the, er, the grabbing me- Thanks, listen, it’s flattering, honestly, but this- Listen, we can talk about it, all right? Just- Let’s go to your office, maybe.”

He has to guide Jon across the archives by the shoulders, a maneuver made all the more difficult by the fact that Jon keeps trying to lean into him shamelessly. Martin would almost believe himself to be dreaming, except that he’s had dreams about this exact scenario plenty of times before, and what's happening now feels painfully wrong. Even in his fantasies, he knew to expect some extended period of stilted, cautious buildup- It was his current boss he was dealing with after all, and a notoriously repressed individual beyond that. If Martin was totally honest with himself, it sort of added to the appeal.

He manages to herd them both into the office and shut the door as quietly as possible before Jon rounds on him, stricken. “Martin, if I’ve made a misjudgment about your feelings for me, I implore you-”

Martin puts a hand up. “Whoa, okay, hold on, you  _knew?_ ” Outrage bubbles up among all the other emotions currently swirling through him, and he practically fumes. “So let me get this straight-  you knew about me, about this, for how long? Actual years? And only just this afternoon you’ve decided, out of the blue, to test the waters with a little zero-to-Frenching in 3.5?”

Jon actually cringes. “Not like _that_ , I didn’t- I had, suspicions. Very vague ones. I’ve always been terrible at-” He shakes his head miserably. “This morning, though, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Or maybe I’d just hoped- Wait, should I take that to mean you _do_ feel the same?”

Martin blinks, disoriented. “I- Sorry, the same as what?”

Jon takes a hesitant step towards him. “I may happen to be, ah, completely besotted with you, Martin.” Wringing his hands, he holds Martin’s wide and astonished gaze. “And please don’t think this is fake, or out of nowhere. I think before I was afraid and I tried to ignore it? I- It’s a lot, for me, you understand, and I can tell I’ve already done this all wrong. But of course I don’t _hate_ you, I think… Martin, you are brilliant. Radiant. See, I can hardly put it into words, is the problem. I’ve no gift for them like you.” Jon finishes with a small, reverent sigh, and Martin has to sit down. He collapses heavily into Jon’s desk chair, and Jon perches awkwardly on the edge of the seat opposite. It’s an odd juxtaposition.

“Right. Okay. _O_ -kay. So you’re saying you’re suddenly in lo- lovesick for me,” Martin says feebly, trying to process it all out. “And you’ve had barely a clue that I’ve carried a bloody torch for you for _years_ , except you decided, completely sober and non-delirious, to waltz over and _snog_ me on some mad hope it’d turn out for the best- Hang on.” He straightens up and then turns towards Jon. “Everything came on this morning? Would you say it was almost, without warning?”

“Well, that’s rather dramatic,” Jon says fussily, and Martin wants to shake him again until he concedes with, “But yes, that was about the time it all fell into place, so to speak. I couldn’t… quite stop thinking about you. There's, ah. This thing you do with your hair, and-”

"Right,” Martin says quickly, leaning forward and forcing himself to ignore the hopeful way Jon mirrors him. “Can you tell me what you were doing this morning? I don’t think I saw much of you, even before I took off for Holland Park.”

“I... was in the library, picking up a couple of cross-reference materials, and then, well, I started on cross-referencing.” Regaining some of his usual composure in talking about work, Jon folds his hands primly on one knee. “I’m afraid I do fail to see how this is entirely relevant to the matter at hand.”

“Bear with me,” Martin replies, taking a steadying breath. “Was there anything else?”

“No, I was fairly occupied with reading for several hours. And then, well, I waited for you to get back.”

“Okay.” An ugly, creeping suspicion of what he may be dealing with is starting to worm its way into Martin’s head, making him feel a bit nauseous. “And… What was it, exactly, that you were reading? Do you remember anything unusual?”

Jon brightens considerably, moving closer to the desk in uncharacteristic excitement. “Oh- You know, that’s- That was it. One of those moments when you read a certain passage and it suddenly puts everything into perfect context, and you feel- clear, renewed, like it was written specifically to gift you with some missing piece of understanding, and now you can finally _see_ that puzzle picture you’ve struggled with for God knows how long. You understand, all at once I _knew_.” He finishes nearly breathless, a faraway look on his face.

Martin’s stomach sinks further with each word. “I do, I think.”

Jon turns sharp eyes on him. “You do?” For the first time, Martin notices that his pupils are blown alarmingly wide.

“Well- In a manner of speaking, maybe,” Martin adds hastily before Jon can come around the desk and try to kiss him again. He formulates his next question with care.  “Do you think you could tell me a bit more about what you were reading, I mean- If it was such a profound experience, I’m curious.”

Martin watches Jon blink several times as if his vision has clouded. “I- That’s funny, I think- Well I don’t quite recall the title. Must be around here somewhere, though…” He stares hazily around the office, reminding Martin uncomfortably of some of the memory ward patients at his mother’s facility.

“That’s okay, Jon,” he says, putting on his soothing voice without quite thinking about it. “Try and focus on what you do remember, all right?”

Jon gives him a nod through some sort of fog. “Of course, there was- I know there was something on- I was looking into that claim put in about the stepmother in Wales who allegedly banished her husband to Hell.” His voice starts to take on some of the familiar derisive skepticism, which to Martin is nothing short of a relief.

“Go on?”

“Yes, well, that statement was hardly worth my time, it is clear that man’s disappearance happened under decidedly mundane circumstances, if nonetheless sinister. Though it did set me investigating the nature of pacts and unions of the supernatural variety. So, I went to pull some books on the topic. Surprisingly, we have quite a lot of material on individual cases of occult-adjacent bonds and vows. It’s astonishing what some people will do just at their weddings.”

Martin feels almost as if he should be taking notes; if it weren’t for the entire debacle of passionate kissing and romantic confession, he’s certain he would be. Jon seems almost normal, aside from the restless glances he keeps throwing in Martin’s direction to make sure he’s still listening. At the mention of marriage, however, something prods Martin in the back of his mind, and he straightens to interrupt. “Sorry, what about weddings?”

A blindsided, almost sheepish expression passes over Jon’s face, and he pauses long enough that Martin almost prompts him again, until he reaches the uneasy realization that Jon is probably thinking about the two of them getting married. He even starts to fidget, stuttering as he continues. “I, one of the books, it had examples- There was a whole chapter on things like blood pact marriages, or, er, plenty of nastier rituals. Sacrificial elements, that sort of thing. You’d think we’d have gotten over that particular facet of purity culture after a couple hundred years, but some of it is so recent… And then…” He trails off again, the moment of clarity from concentrating on his research evidently passed.

“I see,” says Martin confidently, although he feels anything but.  “Sounds quite interesting for a morning’s work. Now, would you happen to have an idea where the books you checked out may have gone off to? Did you return them, or..?”

“No… No, I wasn’t finished with them. Although they don’t seem to be in here.” He turns to scan the room, mildly distressed. “Did you need-?”

“Oh that’s perfectly all right,” Martin says with false cheer, patting the air between Jon and himself in a placating gesture. He gets up from his chair. “You know what, d’you mind if I just pop out for a second and see if I can find them lying around?”

Jon moves at once to stand as well. “I’ll give you a hand if you like, er, perhaps retrace my steps, and all?” Adorably, he clasps his hands behind his back, swaying for a moment like the absolute picture of nerves.

Martin shakes his head, willing himself not to get caught up in endearments. “No need for that! I’ll only be a second. Fresh eyes, you know. Did you make any notes? Maybe you could go through and find those.” He gestures to the desk.

“Yes. Of course, I must have.” Jon nods, turning towards his cluttered station. Before he sets to work, however, he steps closer to Martin and says in a low voice, “Do tell me you believe me, though? Everything I said earlier, I mean. I’m being totally honest, Martin, I’m mad about you, and, oh, if you feel the same I’ll be- Look, do you need proof-?”

“I, don’t think I’ll need any more proof of that, thanks,” Martin says quickly, and then offers a reassuring smile. “I just- I need to think about it a bit, you know? Let things process. We’ll talk more soon, I promise- Only it’s really important I think, what you were looking into, and if you find any notes that’d just be a _great_ start.” He almost pats Jon on the shoulder to send him off, but then considers what a slippery slope any physical contact might be, and aims for just smiling again.

It seems like enough, for the moment. “I suppose you’re right,” Jon says with a bit more resolve, and directs his attention back toward the desk. Martin seizes the opportunity to make his escape, and scurries out the door, shutting it behind him.

For a moment, Martin just leans against the frame and breathes, trying to get his heart rate to slow. “Ohh, this is bad,” he mutters to himself, running a hand through his hair. The worst bit is that a tiny part of him wants to simply _accept_ this, to let Jon kiss him in the middle of the archives, hold hands on the train home (oh God, to let Jon take him _home),_ but it’s obvious by now that something is very wrong. And if Martin’s hunch is correct about what’s happened, this could be nothing short of a disaster.

First, though, he has to be sure. He closes his eyes for one more second, and then heads over across the archives to the assistants’ office, stopping to pick up his sack lunch on the way, although there’s some doubt over whether he’ll get to eat it at this point.

When he enters, he finds that Tim is at his desk in the corner, and immediately a wash of relief that Jon didn’t manage to drag him in here for “privacy” sweeps through Martin. Tim barely glances up when he shuts the door, preoccupied with something on his phone, as he appears to be increasingly often these days. He does say, “How was the carnivorous flowerbed, then? Exciting as we expected?” when Martin tosses his lunch on the desk.

Martin, for the moment, can only offer a shrug. He realizes that he never even got to remove his coat properly, and does so, draping it over the back of his chair. “The dirt was sticky,” he replies to Tim belatedly, wiping his sweaty palms on his thighs as he stares around the room for any books that appear out of place. Nothing stands out, so he wanders a bit closer to Tim’s desk, uncertain how to proceed without completely sensationalizing things. “Say, did you… Happen to notice Jon acting weird at all, this morning?”

Tim snorts quietly. “You mean moreso than usual?” But he does set his phone aside momentarily and look up, his chair creaking as he leans back in it even further. “Nah, I didn’t notice much of him at all, to be honest. So, you know, it’s been a pleasant morning. What’s up now, did he try to tail you out on your spooky reconnaissance mission or something?”

Martin rocks back nervously on the balls of his feet. “Not exactly. Er. How about any odd-looking books, nothing laying around that... “ He takes in Tim’s feet up on the desk and the computer screen, open to Facebook. “You haven’t moved since I left, have you.”

“You caught me.” Tim is entirely unperturbed by this observation, folding his arms comfortably. “Can’t say as I’ll be…” His brow furrows, and abruptly he takes his feet down off the desk. “Hold on. Did you say an odd-looking book?”

Martin nods. “Have you seen one?”

Tim gives him a positively peevish stare. “No, Martin, I haven’t, but I’m not stupid. I’ve worked here long enough that I know what an _unusual book_ is code for.” He draws sharp finger-quotes around the words. “Are you really going to try and keep me in the dark if we’ve got a bloody Leitner situation on our hands?”

Burying his face in his hands, Martin groans. “I don’t even know if we _do_ , that’s the problem! God, I’m sorry, Tim, it’s- Honestly it’s just embarrassing, the whole thing, but I can’t think of any other explanation.”

Tim regards the door warily. “Any other explanation for what?”

Martin nudges Sasha’s vacant desk chair over and sits down heavily. There’s a tense pause before he can force out, in a voice half his usual volume, “Jon’s just professed his undying love for me, you see, and I can’t imagine-”

“Excuse me, are you _joking_?” Tim’s eyebrows very nearly disappear into his hairline; if Martin weren’t so strung out, it would be comical.

“That’s what I asked when he tried to kiss me, actually, and he said _no,_ so you'll understand if I'm in a bit of a shock!” Martin snaps.  
  
Tim throws his hands up in surrender. “No, okay, sorry, I just- What the _fuck._ He kissed you? As in he actually went up and planted one on you, you’re saying on the _lips_ -”

“Oh, yeah,” Martin confirms miserably. “The full monty. And of course I checked if he was sick, asked what on earth was going on, but all I got from him was that he took some references out from the library about supernatural pacts and unions, read some special passage, and then next thing can’t stop mooning over me. I think “besotted” might have been the actual word he used?” He heaves a sigh. It feels good to say it out loud, makes him feel more stable, even if it is embarrassing. “I wasn’t, you know, planning on mentioning the kissing part, but-”

“Nah, I believe you. There’s nothing bar a creepy haunted book that would get him to pull something like that, especially-” Tim bites off the rest of his sentence awkwardly. “Well. I don’t mean to be an insensitive prick about, the whole,” he makes a little circular gesture towards Martin with one finger, “giant crush you’ve had on him forever.” He frowns. “Guess I still kind of am, though. Sorry about that one. This is just really weird.”  

Martin heaves a sigh, rubbing at his temple. “It’s… fine, don’t worry about it. This is kind of my own personal hell already, you’re not going to make it much worse by cracking a bad joke.”

Tim sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Yikes.”

“Yeah.”

“Is he out there?”

“In his office. Told him to see if he can’t find any notes from this morning, might give a clue as to what caused this whole… Infatuation. Ugh, I don’t really want to go back and check, though. He’s so out of it that I’m kind of, well, spooked.”

Tim nods, chews his lip, and then slaps a hand on his desk to stand up. “Right. Well, then I’ll go. Maybe he’ll try and snog me too, who knows. Not exactly my type, but I couldn’t complain.”

“Thanks, Tim,” Martin says with equal measures of rancor and actual gratitude.

“Oh, don’t mention it.”

Martin follows him out. “You actually don’t have to- I mean. I’ll just… Listen in from outside, I suppose? I don’t really want to leave you without, backup.”

Tim nods back at him, unreadable. “Gotcha. Not a bad idea.”  
  
Both of them are talking more quietly now that they’re out of the office. Martin peeks in between some of the rows of files as they pass through. “Speaking of backup, where’s Sasha got off to?”

Tim shrugs. “No clue. Hope she stays out, though, if this really is a Leitner and we’re just waiting for the other foot to drop.”

“How would that even work?”

“Beats me, maybe it’s contagious? That, or he starts freaking out if anyone else gets near you.” At the look on Martin’s face, Tim tries to shoot him a reassuring smile. “Hey, I think I could hold him, though, he’s a bit of a shrimp. I’m not worried.”

“Let’s, just. See if we can get some more information before positing any more outrageous theories, shall we?” Martin hisses.  

“You got it.” Tim squares his shoulders as they reach the door to the head archivist’s office. “Okay. I’m going in.”

Martin gives him a weak thumbs-up. “I’ll be right out here if you, need a hand.”

“Or if Jon does,” Tim points out, and before Martin can be properly scandalized, he knocks firmly twice and opens the door. “Hey Boss!”

Martin stays out of sight next to the doorframe, so he can’t see what happens, but he does hear Jon’s startled gasp, then the distinct sound of a fairly large stack of papers hitting the ground with a _whump_ and scattering.

“Whoops! Didn’t mean to scare you,” Tim forces a chuckle. “What’s all this?”  
  
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Listen, have you seen Martin?” Jon sounds impatient, which is nothing new, but Martin is starting to detect a very worrying hint of urgency in his tone.

“... Let me give you a hand with those,” Tim says, diplomatic but firm, and moves into the office, closing the door behind him with his foot. This is good because it allows Martin to move into a better spot for listening in, but he’s never noticed before just how thick and insular the door’s material is. It’s not easy to make out exactly what they’re saying when there are no raised voices. He’s able to catch Jon saying, “... need to be so worked up,” as he steps closer to the door for a moment, but then he moves away again, and when Tim responds, the only word Martin can make out is, “chill.”

Giving up on overhearing the entire exchange and resolved to step in if the conversation starts to sound heated, Martin lets his attention drift around the archives for a moment. His muddy footprints are still there near the stairs from earlier, darker than he thought they had been. As he observes the place he notices he’s been tracking a thin residue everywhere else he’s gone, too, which means it’s in both offices now as well. “Perfect,” he mutters, but his exasperation is immediately choked off when his eye catches on the corner of a manila folder, sticking out from one of the archive shelves. “Oh, _hang_ on.”

Martin remembers the folder from earlier; Jon had set it down right before marching over to give him the authentic rom-com experience. He crosses the archives quickly to snag it off the shelf, flipping it open. It’s a jackpot- sort of. The folder is full of several sheathes of loose leaf printer paper, covered in handwritten notes which, like most of Jon’s marginalia, have no discernable structure. As he sifts through them Martin notices his name start to pop up occasionally, sometimes crossed out, other times with some unintelligible phrase next to it. There are, at least, no tiny doodles of hearts around these entries, and that is a relief.

Jon has a doctor’s handwriting, but Martin has worked with him long enough to have gained the upper hand in deciphering it. He finds the word _binding,_ underlined vigorously by itself, and then traces one squiggly arrow to a big chunk of notes about classical deals with the devil versus more modern cataloged interpretations. From there a small line branches out towards a scribble of _partnerships?_ and then underneath, _claims of possible ‘symbiosis’- mutual benefit???_ _(dubious)_.  
  
Martin has to squint at the bit next to that, nearly obscured where Jon has tried to circle it off-center, but eventually, he can make out the phrase _see X._ He sifts through a couple of other pages and immediately catches a large, darkened letter X at the top of the one most cramped with commentary. There doesn’t appear to be much more relevant research notation on this page, the handwriting growing scratchier down the length of the page like something out of a horror novel _._ What is written next to the mark is in Polish, to Martin’s surprise. It takes him a moment to sound the words out; since his grandmother passed away he hasn’t had much opportunity for practice, and that was a good several years ago.  
  
_Rośnie z korzeniami jak starożytne drzewa._ “It grows with roots like... ancient trees?” Martin peers at the phrase. “That’s… mm, kind of ominous, what does- Wait.” Last time he checked Jon doesn’t know Polish; Martin’s had to translate for him before. Which means he’s copied the phrase down from _somewhere,_ likely one of the reference texts. There are no translation notes either, nothing to indicate the significance of the phrase, and all coherency seems to dissolve below it. “I’ll bet… I’ll just bet this is from the culprit book,” he says under his breath, and although he’s still very much anxious about the situation at hand, there is no denying the thrill that runs through him at this discovery.

There is little time to bask in it, however, because not a moment later the door to Jon’s office is flung open, and the archivist himself is headed out on a tear with Tim hot on his heels. “I have no idea why you are so  _insistent_ upon wasting my time, but there are-” He turns and, staring across the archives, cries out in great alarm. “ _Martin!”_  
  
Having not heard his name exclaimed in such a tone since his grandmother caught him climbing on the roof at age nine, Martin jumps considerably, and almost drops the folder he’s holding. “What?!” He demands, glancing quickly behind himself to ensure there’s no worm-infested corpse about to body-slam him.  
  
Whatever Martin hasn’t noticed, Tim clearly has. “Oh, shit,” he says, taking a wary step back. “Martin, your trousers.”

“My trous-?” Martin squints at the both of them, thinking wildly that this is quite an overreaction if he’s left his fly open by accident, but when he looks down he swears loudly. Where there used to be just a layer of damp, cracking dirt caked onto the soles of his loafers, there is now a thick ooze of dark mud engulfing his legs and crept nearly up to his thighs. “What th- _Jesus Christ_ , how long has that been-?”  
  
Tim puts his hands up in defense. “I thought you’d just gone in shin-deep, earlier.”    
  
“It was barely- It was _not_ up that high when you came in,” Jon chips in weakly, one palm pressed to his chest like someone having a heart attack. “Good lord, Martin, is it _hurting_ you?”

Martin shakes his head. “No, it’s- I’d have noticed if it were!” He goes to touch it and then thinks better of the decision, drawing his hand back sharply. “Agh, stupid. But it’s not- It feels body temperature, weirdly enough, not cold or hot or, stinging or anything. Now that I’m seeing it my trousers feel a bit heavy, maybe, but I was focused on, well, other issues earlier and it didn’t… Bother me.” In order to study it closer, he brings one leg up, leaning against a shelf. “It looks like regular dirt… And hey, it’s letting me move, still.”

Jon is only slightly placated by this information. “Small relief, but I rather think you should have those clothes off as soon as humanly possible.” At a cough from Tim, he rounds on him, for once blushing furiously. “Not _another_ damn word from you unless it’s going to be helpful!”

“Sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t say anything!” Tim protests, backing up. “Besides! You’re right.” He turns to Martin. “Whatever that shit is, we better get it the hell off you, Martin, before it gets to your face.”

“Oh…” At this, Jon appears nearly ready to pass out. Martin can feel a headache starting to build behind his eyes. “Okay,” he says, trying to think. “Have we- Are there any gloves around, maybe for handling something from artifacts storage, or- Is there a cleaning closet down here? It’s not hurting me but, don’t think anyone should touch this stuff.”  
  
“Right,” Tim says, and then suddenly pulls out his phone. “I’m telling Sasha to take an extra long lunch, wherever she is,” he says, and Martin gives him a distant nod.  
  
“There’s first aide,” Jon says suddenly, after a short pause while they all concentrate. “I moved it to storage, ah, under the cot. Thought if we had anything like a repeat of-” He clears his throat. “Anyway that’s beside the point. The kit will have gloves, and if there are... any other injuries present, we’ll be able to take care of that as well.”

“Yeah. Okay, yeah, that’s a good first step,” Martin says, and the unschooled expression of adoration Jon gives him at the praise reminds him to break out in a brand new cold sweat. Of course, these two absolute crises are occurring together; laughable, that it could happen any other way. As he follows Jon to the storage room, Martin shoots a look at Tim, tagging along behind him: _You see what we’re dealing with?_

“Oh yeah,” Tim mutters, quietly enough that in front of them, Jon doesn’t catch it. “This is  _exactly_ the kind of bullshit luck we have.”

**Author's Note:**

> No claims of authenticity on the Polish, as it's from Google. I have no idea how long this is going to end up being, but rest assured I have a loose resolution planned out and I'm not flying blind. Thanks lastly to YOU for reading, and please leave feedback if you enjoyed it- It'll fuel me to get the next chapter up ASAP! You can find me on tumblr at my TMA blog [@lostjonscave.](https://lostjonscave.tumblr.com/)


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